Fade to Black
by Altaria Volante
Summary: How long does it take until a memory isn't enough to keep you going? How long until your existence hangs on that memory?


**Fade to Black**

He tried to scream, but it was of no use. There was no sound here. 

No sound. 

No color. 

No one. 

Just him. 

But he knew it wasn't just him - he couldn't be alone. There had been so many people go before him. They had to be here. They just had to be. 

He tried to scream again. Maybe someone would hear him. Maybe someone would let him out. Maybe... just maybe it was a mistake. A prank... yes, a prank. He wasn't supposed to be here, cold and alone. Deserted by The Order, by his friends, his family... 

His lungs burned. At least, he imagined that his lungs burned. He couldn't feel anything anymore. He wasn't even sure if there was a body left to feel any pain. So, his imagined. He created the vision of a body in his mind. His mind was the one thing that he could still find. He could think, he could remember, he could imagine feelings and pains. He must still exist. He had to exist. One cannot cease to exist until he ceases to think, correct? 

Looking around, all was black. Nothing but black. Nothing but nothing. It wasn't unusual. He couldn't see anything, just think. Gods, how he wished to see again. He tried to open his eyes - or at least what he thought were his eyes. Nothing. How he wished he could see those whom he remembered so vividly. 

He'd been many things to many people. He'd gone by many names in his time of life. 

Padfoot. 

He'd been a dog. He'd been a child playing with his friends, delving into magic that none of them really understood in an attempt to help a friend not feel so alone. He'd been a companion to his friends. He'd been playful. Life was fun. Life was carefree. Life was _lived_. 

Godfather. 

He'd been invited to be part of his best friend's family. Given charge over this tiny little bit of a boy. Scraggly black hair like his father, and stunning green eyes like his mother. Smart like his Uncle Remus and friendly like his Uncle Peter - that wretched bastard. This little being... and they trusted him to help raise him. 

Azkaban Prisoner. 

He'd been a number. Assumed to be a corpse of a man locked away in a back cell. Accused of the murder of dozens and one of the most wanted of wizards. They'd tried to break him, to waste his soul as they had wasted his body. But they couldn't. He was strong. It didn't work then, and it wouldn't work now. As long as he kept the despair at bay, this would all pass in time. He was stronger than that. He'd always been stronger than that. He was a survivor. Azkaban passed… this too. 

Snuffles. 

Again, a dog. He'd helped his godson and his friends. He'd finally breathed fresh air again, and he'd been able to run. He could watch his godson grow up and realize that, yes he was his father's son, but no, he wasn't his father. The boy had finally stepped out of James' shadow and was his own. And he had gotten to watch. As hard as it was, he'd gotten to watch. 

Order Member. 

He'd been an asset. He let them use his house, even if they had to ignore the bitter woman in the portrait. Mother never really was the pleasant sort to listen to. He'd helped the Order as much as he could from his confinement in the house. He'd been needed. 

Black. 

He'd been a pureblood - not like that really mattered in the grand scheme of things. He'd come from a long line of powerful, if slightly misguided wizards. The name carried power and a certain respect - if you held those things important. Respect was fine, but truthfully, most 'respectable people' were frightfully dull. And being a pureblood in a family that held that in highest regard only meant that you would end up marrying your cousin in an attempt to keep less desirable bloodlines at bay. 

Sirius. 

He'd been just Sirius. He'd been himself. What he really was. He'd wanted to have fun, to be with his friends, to make them laugh, to make himself laugh. He'd been nothing more than he wanted to be. 

He'd gone by so many names... alias after alias trying to define who he really was. And now... all that there really was was the memory of who he used to be. He could still imagine the spot in the darkness that he'd come through that first day - before his memories started slipping away, before he was perpetually cold, before he was alone, before he was forced into silence. All that was left was the essence of him - of Sirius. As long as he held onto that, he would exist. As long as he could hold on, he would be someone. But how long could he hold on to even that before the last name he could call himself became nameless? How long before he'd just... fade to black... 


End file.
